Fidgety fingers,
searching for something to hold on.
The cradle of creation,
searching for an instrument.
Paper feels too real,
too rough,
raw.
Its simplicity carries a finality,
for ink cannot be erased;
only burnt or cast away;
and is this hand worthy,
of leaving behind indelible ink?
Fabric doesn't fit,
It takes space
and what need does desperation have for space?
Strings strum,
melody reverberates.
But, that which trembles, needs not more movement.
Glide and Tap,
cradle of creation, cradles another,
Familiarity breeds respite.
Glass screen,
sometimes a mirror;
But mirror isn't what restless souls seek.
One push,
And the mirror becomes the door.
It recognizes its owner,
and yet,
that which is owned,
has the choice to let in.
The door to the world.
Trembling fingers,
now calmly steady the door.
And in this stead,
The door morphs into the screen.
The thumb poised,
Like a scorpion's tail.
It strikes.
Two strikes, for an affirmation;
but poison can't penetrate the surface.
It trickles within.
And poison desires more.
The dance of the scorpion has begun,
It's body wrapped around the prey,
It's tail swipes,
Hungry for more;
Double Tap to Like.
And swift release.
Ah, but the scorpion is a mere appendage;
to this afflicted mind.
The same mind that could create,
seeks solace in curated illusions.
Such is the fate of these trembling hands,
Stability lent, borrows peace.
The screen held like a baby's head,
caressed carefully;
lest it fall,
and die.
Death has evolved,
it doesn't seek the mere flesh and blood.
Hungry for the evasive mind;
It envelops,
just like the scorpionic hand,
and enters slowly;
Taps of poison.
And when the mind sleeps,
Desiring dreams of true respite,
The trembling fingers twitch;
Escape twitches for a release.
But this mind is a blank circle with walls,
An arena, trapped within its escape.
Unborn creation is steadily consumed by hungry death.
And all that moves is the thumb,
Entrenched in familiar comfort;
of two taps and a glide.
